


Food Poisoning

by FlyAway_33



Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Food Poisoning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Sick Roger Taylor (Queen), Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23564809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAway_33/pseuds/FlyAway_33
Summary: Roger suddenly falls ill during a performance.
Relationships: John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691062
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Food Poisoning

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize this, it is because it has been posted before. I previously had it as part of a single story of unrelated chapters, and wanted to reorganize those chapters into individual stories so that I have the opportunity to continue one of the multiple story lines. Now those chapters will all be re-posted into a series!
> 
> TW: vomiting

Something wasn’t right.

The lights were too bright, too hot. The bass drum pounding through his monitor was deafening and the sound of blood rushing through his ears only magnified it. A churning in his stomach and an unbearable heat in his cheeks let Roger know that something wasn’t right at all. 

Sure, concerts were always loud, hot, and exhausting, but normally his adrenalin kicked in and none of that was really noticeable. Normally Roger had a blast performing: making faces at Freddie and occasionally Brian and John as they passed before his drum kit on their way across the stage. Normally he loved a quick show off of his skills, a drum solo to complement Brian’s guitar work, flashy cymbal smashes with the snare to signal the others. Normally he felt on top of the world while performing: completely confident, excited to play their music to make people happy, overjoyed to be playing with his favorite people in the world.

But not tonight.

No, tonight was not his night. Not at all. Tonight he felt a kind of unexpected sensory overload, and though it was a long concert anyway he was getting unusually tired as he played through the twelfth song of the set, Liar. He’d been having a blast as usual just moments prior, until during Deaky’s bass line he began to feel it: a twisting sensation in his stomach that had him swallowing desperately as his face flushed and he began to feel less in control. 

Just get through the song. He thought. The boys were pretty good at checking in on him after drum-heavy numbers like this to allow him to catch his breath. A little breather, that’s all he needed. But he was only kidding himself: he knew his body well enough to know that something definitely was not right.

He put on a perfect facade to the audience that nothing was amiss but made eye contact with John as he wailed on his cymbals at the coda, and saw in John’s face that he recognized something was wrong. Luckily Love of My Life was next and he could get a quick break, and after the final cymbal smash of Liar he didn’t hesitate to jump down off his riser and make his way on shaking legs to where his assistant, Crystal stood with a towel and a water.

“Alright, mate?” Crystal asked, raising his brows in concern at the drummer’s disheveled appearance. 

Roger shook his head “I’m— I’m gonna—“ but he couldn’t get his words out before he doubled over, clutching his stomach as he vomited violently onto the floor. 

Crystal shouted in surprise and rushed to the drummer’s aide, shooing away other roadies who came to see if they could help, as he knew Roger didn’t like pitying attention. John jogged over as well, a martini clutched in his hand in true John Deacon fashion. 

Roger groaned after he spit a final time, his head was swimming as he straightened up and he felt as though he’d been hit by a bloody train. “I don’t know where that came from,” he grumbled as Crystal took him by the elbow and guided him over to a small folding chair that had been set before an air fan for him.

“Easy does it, Rog.” Crystal sighed as he helped the drummer ease into his seat. “Have some water, yeah?”

“Think you’ll be able to finish the concert?” John asked, sipping his drink nervously.

“‘Course I bloody will!” Roger growled stubbornly as he pulled his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and tossed it unceremoniously at the nearest wall in frustration. The wave of nausea the action created shouldn’t have caught him by surprise, but it did, and he rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head into the stream of air from the fan, trying hard to control his breathing through his nose. 

“Well, they’re almost done, mate,” John sighed referring to Brian and Freddie as he placed his glass down on a nearby speaker. “’39’s next.”

“Lovely.” The drummer rolled his eyes and got to his feet, legs still shaking.

No one asked the cranky blond any more questions as John retreated to his side of the stage to grab his bass and Crystal slipped a button up shirt over Roger’s arms. He then placed a tambourine in his hand and gave him a pat on the shoulder in silent encouragement. Crystal knew Roger could hold his own and he didn’t want to risk further upsetting him by coddling him, so he sent the drummer back onto the stage without another word.

The other two bandmates were oblivious to the drummer’s backstage plight and once John and Roger had joined them at the front of the stage they launched right into ’39. With the adrenalin of being up front Roger was able to lock in and perform as he was meant to, even going so far as to goof off a little with Freddie, but alas as the song drew to a close and the excitement dissipated he felt himself tipping toward another downward spiral. He was at least relieved to hide behind his drum kit, and noticed someone had placed a bucket behind his chair along with a very cold and miraculous-looking bottle of water, which he guzzled down as though his mouth were a funnel. 

The rest of the concert crawled by and Roger did in fact have to make use of the bucket after three more songs, vomiting up all the water he had drank minutes prior. He was miserable, sweat poured down his face and body as he stood, trembling to make his way to the front of the stage to bow with his brothers after the final encore. Finally it was over. He received worried glances from both John and Brian, who now realized that something was wrong, and none of the three of them lingered too long on stage, allowing Freddie to say his intimate goodbye to the audience. The singer had been in an unusually good mood tonight so they weren’t going to put out his fire quite yet. 

Roger’s stomach lurched painfully as they entered the back hallway and he stopped, leaning his exhausted body heavily on the cool cinder block wall. Brian and John had taken several steps before they realized he was no longer in stride with them and once they did, turned back to rush to his aid. Roger slid down the wall with a groan, clutching his stomach as he squeezed both his eyes and lips shut to fight off the nausea. His head spun wildly and his insides felt as though they were disintegrating. The world felt as though it were tipping. He didn’t like this. No, not one little bit.

Over the rushing in his ears the ill drummer could hear someone trying to coax him to open his eyes, but he shook his head in desperate attempt to deter them, because if he did he was sure he was going to be sick again. But the unfamiliar, persistent voice wasn’t going away and John’s soft voice joined in with it.

“Rog, you need to respond,” Deaky stated, gently yet firmly, and Roger felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder. “He’s just trying to make sure you’re alright.” Roger peeked open one eye to see the uniform of a backstage medic. He interacted with them often when he needed his hands bandaged but he was certainly not in the mood to be crowded by them at the moment.

The medic was a young man probably in his early thirties with sandy brown hair and a concerned look on his chiseled face. “Mr. Taylor, how are you feeling? What’s the matter?”

“I’m nauseous. Hot.” Roger croaked out, his pained expression quickly turning into a scowl as he noticed how many people were gathered around him. Where was Crystal to keep them all off his arse? “I threw up twice” he added, his voice strained from the distress he felt with all the eyes on him.

“When did this start?” The medic picked up the drummer’s left wrist and pushed his sweatband up his arm a bit in order to press two fingers to his pulse point, another action that drove the drummer closer to full on melt-down. 

“During Liar.” Roger grunted. “You’ll find I’m tachycardic.” He grumped, revealing the former med student in him. “Was just drumming for two bloody hours, mate. You won’t get a proper blood pressure either so don’t torture me with that bloody cuff.”

“Right.” The medic grumbled, his worry quickly turning into annoyance as Roger’s focus shifted away from him to shoot angry glares at his new backstage audience. The crew should know better by now than to crowd him when he was in a bad mood, and either way, gawking at him like he’d sprouted an extra head was just downright rude. “Alright, sir, this was a quick onset? You weren’t feeling bad at all before the concert?”

“No. As I said it started during Liar.”

“Roggie,” Brian spoke up in a scolding, mother hen tone. “He’s just trying to help you.”

“He’s turning me into a bloody spectacle, just leave me alone won’t you?! All of you!” The drummer tried to put on a genuinely angry front but his voice cracked and betrayed him, revealing his truly panicked state.

“You’re the one turning yourself into a spectacle, mate.” John commented. 

“Fuck off, John.” Roger spat, using the wall to push himself back up to his feet. He paused again to clutch his head as black spots polluted his vision, making it impossible for him to navigate. A hand, Brian’s he assumed, gripped his shoulder and led him farther down the hall until he could clear his vision and see his own way, and the bandmates retreated into the dressing room they all shared. 

Inside the secure walls of the dressing room, Roger felt much less exposed and irritated and he made a beeline for the dingy old couch. Now he just felt tired and sick. He collapsed onto the ragged sofa and rested his forehead on his hand, wincing at the unpleasant feeling of stage makeup mixed with sweat rubbing off on his fingers, and tried to level his breathing. Normally he was the first to jump in the shower after a performance like that as he hated feeling dirty and much preferred to be fresh and comfortable, but he didn’t think he could stand the dizzying steam without hurling again, although he knew it would probably happen anyway. He kept his eyes closed, just breathing as he calmed himself, the other boys keeping to themselves as they bustled around him in their post-show routines.

The room was oddly quiet for after a show. They would usually be shouting happily and/or critiquing their performances together as they planned for afterward, the buzz of the stage high still touring through their veins. The room was quiet, that was, until their lead singer burst through the door, Ratty and Crystal hot on his heels, both looking rather annoyed. 

“Roger, darling!” the singer shouted, his voice echoing off the hard walls and even through the drummer’s tired and muffled hearing reverberated through his skull. “Why on earth didn’t you say you were ill?” 

Roger wasn’t about to explain to yet another person, so he just groaned and slid down to lie on the couch, exhaustion taking hold of him quickly, yet his stomach churned violently with the movement. Crystal waved off the singer and strode over to the drummer’s side to tend to him. “He’s been on a rampage since he noticed your mess backstage,” Crystal grumbled, crouching by his boss’s side. “Shouting at everyone for not taking proper care of you yet he held up Ratty and I from doing just that by being such a bloody drama-queen.” 

Roger’s only response was another groan, his face paling, feeling his body take on a mind of its own as a violent cramp gripped his stomach and he curled in on himself. Bile shot up his esophagus once more and before he could warn anyone or request a bucket he’d vomited down his front, taking no mind to his assistant’s shout of surprise or the unpleasant feeling of sick on his bare chest.  
No one really knew what to do, and the bandmates and assistants stood, unsure of the situation as they watched their drummer suffering helplessly. “He has to have eaten something bad. We didn’t even drink last night.” John commented, a concerned lilt to his voice.

“The sushi he had at the hotel could’ve been the culprit.” Freddie sighed with a dramatic eye roll. “It did seem a bit improper. We should get him straightened up.”  
The others in the room agreed as they watched the incoherent drummer writhe uncomfortably, and nobody moved until Freddie let out an expletive about no one taking initiative and advanced toward his best friend himself, scooping him up into a sitting position and supporting him as he whimpered and wilted against him. Though Freddie was such a drama queen that he’d barely tie his own shoes, he would do absolutely anything for Roger, even if it would be unpleasant. “Come on now, darling, you have got to get cleaned up. No one’s getting in a car with you smelling like this.” No hint of jest colored the singer’s tone as he helped Roger out of his sweat-soaked clothes and guided him over to the locker room-style showers in a connected room. All the boys showered and changed quickly, exchanging worried glances at times as their drummer struggled to hold himself upright.

Back at the hotel after a nauseating limo ride Roger was immediately whisked up to the band’s floor and into his room by his bandmates. He’d managed to change into sweatpants and a t-shirt after his shower back at the stadium so after brushing his teeth he went straight to bed. As the drummer came out of the bathroom with every intent to collapse into the soft sheets and sleep for days, he was surprised to find his bandmates lingering in his room, huddled together discussing how they could help their ill friend. 

“Boys,” Roger groaned, embarrassment and guilt flooding him at the sight of his friends’ concern for him. “Go raise hell, I’ll be alright.”

It was rare for the band to stay in after a concert, after all. Despite the late nights they always had adrenalin pumping through their veins that made it hard to even sit still let alone sleep, and Freddie and Roger would be up til all hours of the morning living their rockstar lives to the fullest. The fact that they were staying in because Roger clearly couldn’t go out upset him more than it should have. He hated being the reason they weren’t out having fun. 

“Nonsense, darling. You’re ill, we’d be awful to leave you all alone.” Freddie swooped down upon the drummer and led him to the bed with a gentle hand. “Easy does it, Rog.”

“But I don’t want to take your fun away. Just send up Crystal or Ratty to keep me company, at least they get paid for it.”

“No, love. We’re staying. That’s final.”

“Yeah, mate, we’re a family,” John came and joined the pair on the bed, settling on the other side of Rog. “I don’t even think we’d be able to enjoy the night knowing you’re so miserable. It wouldn’t be right.”

Brian found the small hotel trash bin and brought it over to set beside the bed in case Roger needed it. He then plopped down on Freddie’s other side, snatching the TV guide from the nightstand. “Right. Now what movie shall we watch, hmm?” 

The night passed agonizingly slow for all four boys as they cycled between joyfully snuggling together to watch whatever bullshit they could find on TV and holding on to Rog while he puked up the water they had been giving him in desperate attempt to keep him hydrated. After the fifth time, however, he finally passed out from pure exhaustion to the soothing feeling of Brian stroking his hair as John and Freddie went off in desperate search of some kind of anti-nausea medication.

Having his friends fret over his well being was something Roger didn’t allow often. He was a stubborn man who hated appearing weak, but as he drifted off to sleep with all three of his best friends doting on him and making desperate attempts to make him feel better the drummer couldn’t help but feel incredibly loved. Though he felt like absolute shit he knew he had the people who cared most about him and that made it all okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! let me know what you think!


End file.
